from me at a table. We are alone.
“Hello, Khaled.”
I say nothing.
“I know who killed your brothers and their friends,” he says.
I look back down at my financial analysis textbook. The charts and tables swim before my eyes.
“Don’t you wish to know?” he says after my silence becomes uncomfortable.
“Yes,” I say.
Then he surprises me. “Why do you wish to know?”
“Because I want to fight back against whoever killed them. I want them dead. I want them suffering.”
Now it was his turn to be silent.
“You seem a stuffy sort and you are thin. I’m not sure you will be useful.” J puts his hands flat on the table.
I let all the strength gather in my body. “I’d like to be useful.”
“Come with me,” he says.
I do. Over the next day he shows me the proof—financial trails, photos, a picture of the Khaled boy with the deformed lip, now lying on a morgue slab.
“I killed him,” J says. “He cried before I shot him. I didn’t much like him. He wouldn’t betray his friends, he wouldn’t work with us.”
I don’t take any relief in seeing the dead man, even though he planted the bomb. He is just a cog; I want to break the machine. “You could give all this evidence to the police.”
“They would do nothing,” J says. “You could do something.”
“What?”
J leans back in his chair, lit his cigarette. “Join us.”
“No.”
He offers the cigarettes to me and I shake my head. “I expected you to say yes.”
“I’m not a fool.”
“No, you’re not, Khaled. That’s why I’m issuing the offer to you. You are ideal. You’re young, smart, and motivated.”
“I’m just one man.”
“We have several young men lined up for this sort of dangerous work.”
“Where would I go?”
“America.” J almost says it with a growl.
I hesitate on how to answer. I want to strike back at the murderers. I want to make something happen so another family does not go through this horror. I put my face in my hands. If Papa hadn’t died . . . maybe I could say no to J. But my brothers’ deaths have shown me the ripple effect. My brothers’ murders killed more than themselves. Blood of Fire’s enemies remain unpunished. And if I decline J’s offer . . . am I suddenly, well, dangerous, to J and his people? I know about them. The thought chills.
It is the single biggest moment of my life. Decide whether to avenge my family or whether to walk away and be safe. But there is no safety in this world.
“What do I have to do?” I ask.
“First? You have to sneak into America, Khaled,” J says.
“Will I have help?”
“Yes. But if you’re caught, we do nothing for you. You never heard of us. You speak of us and I don’t think American prison will go very well for you.”
I swallow. The decision makes itself. I nod. “When do I leave?”
11
Ben saw two men—hard-faced, pale, wearing jeans and dark T-shirts. One sported wraparound sunglasses, the other a punkish thatch of black-and-white hair. He didn’t see the guns until the one in sunglasses raised a pistol and the other gunman hoisted a rifle.
“Run,” Pilgrim said, putting himself between Ben and the gunmen, firing at them as he ran. Ben turned and sprinted down the hallway. In the narrow corridor the sudden blasts of two shots boomed like thunder yanked close to earth.
Ben headed for a stairwell at the end of the hallway. An exit sign hung above the door, and as he bolted toward it the sign shattered, a stray bullet slamming through the X .
As he reached for the door, heat hissed past his ear. He tried the door. Locked. Then Pilgrim jerked Ben back from the door, fired a bullet into the lock, a punch of fire and metal. Pilgrim kicked the door open and shoved Ben into the stairway. A faint, dying-bulb glow lit the stairs.
“Stop,” Pilgrim said. “There could be more downstairs. I’m sure there are at least three of them. I’ll kill these two here.”
Okay, fine then, you’ll kill them here. Ben couldn’t
“Hello, Khaled.”
I say nothing.
“I know who killed your brothers and their friends,” he says.
I look back down at my financial analysis textbook. The charts and tables swim before my eyes.
“Don’t you wish to know?” he says after my silence becomes uncomfortable.
“Yes,” I say.
Then he surprises me. “Why do you wish to know?”
“Because I want to fight back against whoever killed them. I want them dead. I want them suffering.”
Now it was his turn to be silent.
“You seem a stuffy sort and you are thin. I’m not sure you will be useful.” J puts his hands flat on the table.
I let all the strength gather in my body. “I’d like to be useful.”
“Come with me,” he says.
I do. Over the next day he shows me the proof—financial trails, photos, a picture of the Khaled boy with the deformed lip, now lying on a morgue slab.
“I killed him,” J says. “He cried before I shot him. I didn’t much like him. He wouldn’t betray his friends, he wouldn’t work with us.”
I don’t take any relief in seeing the dead man, even though he planted the bomb. He is just a cog; I want to break the machine. “You could give all this evidence to the police.”
“They would do nothing,” J says. “You could do something.”
“What?”
J leans back in his chair, lit his cigarette. “Join us.”
“No.”
He offers the cigarettes to me and I shake my head. “I expected you to say yes.”
“I’m not a fool.”
“No, you’re not, Khaled. That’s why I’m issuing the offer to you. You are ideal. You’re young, smart, and motivated.”
“I’m just one man.”
“We have several young men lined up for this sort of dangerous work.”
“Where would I go?”
“America.” J almost says it with a growl.
I hesitate on how to answer. I want to strike back at the murderers. I want to make something happen so another family does not go through this horror. I put my face in my hands. If Papa hadn’t died . . . maybe I could say no to J. But my brothers’ deaths have shown me the ripple effect. My brothers’ murders killed more than themselves. Blood of Fire’s enemies remain unpunished. And if I decline J’s offer . . . am I suddenly, well, dangerous, to J and his people? I know about them. The thought chills.
It is the single biggest moment of my life. Decide whether to avenge my family or whether to walk away and be safe. But there is no safety in this world.
“What do I have to do?” I ask.
“First? You have to sneak into America, Khaled,” J says.
“Will I have help?”
“Yes. But if you’re caught, we do nothing for you. You never heard of us. You speak of us and I don’t think American prison will go very well for you.”
I swallow. The decision makes itself. I nod. “When do I leave?”
11
Ben saw two men—hard-faced, pale, wearing jeans and dark T-shirts. One sported wraparound sunglasses, the other a punkish thatch of black-and-white hair. He didn’t see the guns until the one in sunglasses raised a pistol and the other gunman hoisted a rifle.
“Run,” Pilgrim said, putting himself between Ben and the gunmen, firing at them as he ran. Ben turned and sprinted down the hallway. In the narrow corridor the sudden blasts of two shots boomed like thunder yanked close to earth.
Ben headed for a stairwell at the end of the hallway. An exit sign hung above the door, and as he bolted toward it the sign shattered, a stray bullet slamming through the X .
As he reached for the door, heat hissed past his ear. He tried the door. Locked. Then Pilgrim jerked Ben back from the door, fired a bullet into the lock, a punch of fire and metal. Pilgrim kicked the door open and shoved Ben into the stairway. A faint, dying-bulb glow lit the stairs.
“Stop,” Pilgrim said. “There could be more downstairs. I’m sure there are at least three of them. I’ll kill these two here.”
Okay, fine then, you’ll kill them here. Ben couldn’t
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